In Passing
by Reynardine
Summary: Sometimes we don't realise how much our actions mean to others . . . series of one shots.
1. Default Chapter

'**Sometimes we step into each others stories – perhaps just for a few minutes . . .' – _Ghosts of Wind and Shadow, by Charles de Lint._**

It's sad, sometimes.

A woman stands by the counter, talking to my Dad as he appraises the ring she wants to sell. There's a desperate harshness to her face. Her voice is quick and clipped, very steady. But I can tell she wants to cry.

My Dad doesn't ask questions. Sometimes people want to talk; they want to explain why they're selling their heirlooms, their memories, their kid's toys. Dad nods his head and listens, then gives them a good price. My Dad never cheats.

He hands the woman her money. She stares at it for a moment and all the harshness falls from her face. Her eyes shine, too bright. Then she stuffs the bills into her purse and leaves, letting in a gust of freezing air.

Dad sighs. He opens the jewellery display case and I go back to my homework.

I can't concentrate. I tap my pencil against the page of math problems and gaze out of the window at the falling snow. Beyond the swirling white I can just make out the darkening street. Our store is filled with muted shadows and the quiet rattle of the heaters. The air smells faintly of burning dust.

I shift in my rickety folding chair at the far end of the counter and take a glimpse over my shoulder. Dad's still got the ring in his palm, squinting at something on the inside of the gold band.

'What's it say?'

He jerks a little, surprised. 'Oh.' He puts the ring down into the case and runs a hand through his thinning, grey-streaked hair. 'Forever,' he answers. As he locks the case back up he says, 'Are you sure you don't want to go out?'

'I'm sure, Dad. It's too cold.' I want to tell him I like it here in our little shop, with its second-hand treasure trove crowding the floor, fighting for space. I want to tell him that I like being here with him. Tell him that I worry, that the apartment feels too empty when I'm there alone, even if he's just downstairs in the shop.

The bell over the door jingles as someone comes in. The figure is bundled up well against the winter; boots, trench coat, mittens, fedora jammed down over his face, and a scarf wrapped round so there's only the dark gleam of his eyes showing.

I'd be worried, but I recognise him. Not from his features, but from the clothes – he wears the same outfit each time – and his slightly hunched over posture. He's a short guy, but stocky; it's hard to tell if that's muscle, fat, or just layers of sweaters.

Dad recognises him too. 'Hello. Got something to show me?'

'Sure have.' He has a young voice, light and friendly. I can hear a smile in it.

He comes up to the counter and draws a bracelet out of his coat pocket. 'I don't know if this is worth anything . . .'

Dad takes it from him. I notice that the guy's mittens are fraying. There's a new patch, inexpertly sewn, on the coat. I wonder, not for the first time, if he's homeless. Maybe that's why he's always so bundled up. Maybe he's wearing everything he owns.

'Well now,' Dad says. 'This could be worth something.'

'Really?'

Dad nods. 'High carat gold, real sapphire – pity one's missing . . .' After a few minutes he hands the guy a sheaf of bills. He just stands there, staring, like the woman did earlier. Dad has bought some pretty eclectic stuff from him over the last couple of months, but none of it has been worth so much money.

The guy realises we're looking at him. I quickly get back to my math homework, pretending I wasn't looking at all.

'Do you sell coats?' he asks. 'Like this one?' He gestures towards his trench coat. Dad nods and shows him the rail of clothes tucked into the far corner.

Quiet slips over the store. I start working on a math problem, get bored, and turn the scribbles into a sketch of a woman. The woman starts to look like Mom, so I stop. All of a sudden the life seems to go out of everything. The store isn't cosy – it's cramped. It's not filled with treasure – it's filled with junk, things people didn't want, didn't need, or things people wanted to keep but couldn't, because they needed the money more.

The bell breaks the silence. We all look up – my Dad from a pile of receipts and paperwork, the guy from his perusal of the clothes rack.

A man stands by the door. He's tall and rangy, with a long, thin face. He takes two strides into the store and reaches into his coat pocket.

'Don't move,' he says, and brings out a gun.

No one moves.

'You,' the man says, waving the gun at my Dad. 'Give me the money from the till.' Then he glances over at the short guy in the corner. 'And you, keep still.'

My Dad doesn't move. I know what he's thinking; this is _our_ money, our shop, we've just got it back on track and how _dare_ he try and take it?

The man's confident veneer is starting to peel away. He licks his lips, presses them together.

'I won't ask you again.'

My heart is pounding so hard I think I'm going to be sick. 'Dad,' I whisper. 'Do you want me to do it?' I reach out towards the till. The man snaps at me not to move and my Dad breaks out of his trance, opening the till and scooping out handfuls of money.

'Put it in a bag.'

Dad stuffs the money into a brown paper bag. The man darts forward, snatches it up and steps back a pace. He glances down at the jewellery case. He's contemplating taking something from that too, but changes his mind.

'Your ring,' he says to my Dad. Up close he doesn't look confident at all; his eyes are wide and panicked and he breathes too fast.

Dad folds his hands together. 'My ring?'

'Give me it.'

'Please; you can have anything else, but my wife gave – '

'_Give me it!'_

Spittle flies from his lips. He's loosing control. Dad has the ring half way off his finger when a floorboard creaks, the man jumps in surprise and the gun cracks the air.

Dad jerks back, stumbles over a stool, falls to the ground.

The man stares at me and I know what'll happen next; he'll panic, he'll shoot me, and the guy in the corner –

The guy in the corner moves so fast.

He twists the man's arm and the gun drops to the ground. The man's cry of pain is cut off as a mitten-covered hand snaps up and hits him in the jaw, an audible smack of flesh on flesh. The man's eyes roll back and he's dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

I turn away, suddenly able to move again. 'Dad?' I drop to my knees. His eyes are closed and blood is spreading down his shirt, pooling under him. '_Dad!'_ I press my hands to where I think the wound is, high up on his chest, but all I can see is blood.

'Let me see.' The guy moves me aside. He kneels down next to me. I press a hand to my face, not thinking, and the blood gets in my mouth.

I realise I'm chanting under my breath. 'No. No. No . . .'

The guy gets up. I want to ask him where he's going but I can't break out of my chant. I hear him clattering around the store and then he's back, pulling off his mittens. He has two sweaters in his hands and a belt. He folds up the sweaters and places one either side of the wound and then ties them on with the belt, cinching it tight. He works quickly, surely, like he's washed blood from his hands before.

'It's okay,' he says to me. 'He's not dead, he's just been knocked out.'

I nod. I've still got my hand over my mouth. He gently prises it away. That's when I notice his hands are green and that he only has two fingers. Two fingers and a thumb.

My thought won't stick together properly, they keep falling a part, but I manage to think – _oh, that's why he's so covered up, he's deformed_. I don't care though, not at all, not when my Dad's bleeding on the ground and this man's just saved both our lives.

'Hey,' he says. 'It's okay. You're safe.' He takes my hands. His skin feels tough, like leather. 'Let's wash this off.'

'There's a sink . . .' I stop, clear my throat and try again. 'A sink in the back room.' The blood is drying thick and sticky. My hands itch. He pulls me up and I stumble through the dark back room, finding the sink mostly by memory. I let the water run until it's boiling and then scrub until my skin is red and raw. The guy leaves at some point and calls for the police and an ambulance. When he comes back he watches me for a moment and then turns off the tap. Puffs of steam float in the air. Without a word he leads me back into the store and makes me sit down in the chair where only a few minutes ago I was doing my homework.

He checks my Dad and then walks out from behind the counter.

'Where are you going?' I scramble up. 'Don't leave!'

He's got two more belts and is busy tying up the unconscious man. I try to guess what he's thinking, but I can't see his face.

'Don't leave,' I say again. I'm ashamed to hear the break in my voice and feel tears sting my eyes.

There's a long pause. 'Okay,' he says, 'but I'll have to leave before the police get here.'

I'm about to ask why, until I think about his hands. A dozen scenarios flick through my head. I discard them all, thinking only that I'm glad I'm not alone.

I sit down next to my Dad. His ring is still half off his finger, so I slip it back on. The guy sits down next to me. I rub at my eyes and swallow hard, past the lump in my throat. I start shaking, for no reason I can see.

I'm pretty sure he's speaking, mumbling in his quiet voice about how everything's going to be fine. I can't seem to focus very well, but it's still nice to have someone say the words. After a while he stops talking and I stop shaking and we fall silent.

I can hear New York, but can't see it. I can hear my Dad breath and see his chest rise and fall. I'm not alone as I wait for the police and I'm not an orphan. Slowly, slowly, tension ebbs out of me. Of course, I choose that moment to burst into tears.

He sort of flinches, like I've surprised him. Then he lets out this sad sigh and wraps one arm around me. I snuffle and bawl into my hands like an idiot. Weird thing is, I actually feel a bit better now.

He hears the sirens before I do.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'But I have to go.'

'What?' I wipe my eyes and nose on my sleeve. I listen, and hear sirens wailing in the distance. 'Oh.'

We stand up. 'There's a back door,' I say and lead him towards it. I grapple with the rusting lock until he politely moves me aside and wrenches it back with apparently no effort. The door opens out into a dark, narrow alley. Snow blows in around us.

'Thank you,' I say, before he leaves. I want those two words to carry much more than they do. I'm trying to tell him I'll keep quiet about his hands, and that he can come back here if he wants; I'm thanking him for stopping the robber, helping my Dad, staying with me. But I don't have enough time and I've never been good with words.

I don't know how much of my unspoken message he gets. There's a smile in his voice when he says, 'You're welcome,' though, and I hope enough of it got through. He steps out into the alley and I close the door.

I stand at the counter and see the outlines of cars through the snow. At some point the store's become a treasure trove again. I kneel beside my Dad as the door opens and the bell rings out, and I know we'll both be okay.


	2. 2

**Author Note: First off, thank you to everyone who reviewed 'In Passing.' I gave me a nice shot of confidence.**

**_Leo Oneal, FF Demon-angel and Chibi Rose Angel – _you guessed right.**

**Oh, and because I forgot, here's the disclaimer – I don't own them. I don't even own a car.**

I didn't mean for this to happen, okay? It's not like I woke up one morning and just decided to become a thief. All I wanted to do was escape.

People stream by me as I skulk in the mouth of an alley. I'm trying to hide, but I guess there's no need. Any one with half an eye open can tell I'm homeless and that makes you invisible.

I'm looking for a victim.

It's getting dark, which is good for stealing, but it's getting colder too, and I wasn't too warm to begin with. My fingers feel stiff and clumsy, even when I stuff them in my pockets – also not good for stealing. I can smell hotdogs, from a stand down the street. My stomach doesn't just growl – it claws at me. And underneath my filthy coat are bruises smeared across my ribs, aching and biting when I breathe too deep.

I don't know what I'm doing, that's the problem. This isn't my neighbourhood. In the past three weeks some people have been friendly, some have been crazy, and some have beat the hell out of me because I touched their dumpster. I've never stolen anything in my life, except twenty dollars from my mom's purse once, and even then I used it for food. That was during one of her 'down' times. She could get by on gin and cigarettes then, but I needed to eat.

You know, there were times when I'd just look at her, passed out in our squalid little apartment, or collapsed in the stairwell when she couldn't quite make it home, and I'd think 'Mom, what's _wrong_ with you?' How did she get so screwed up? Couldn't she tell that all those 'boyfriends' she had were losers, criminals, perverts? But she didn't even seem to see when her new one kicked me across the kitchen. I'd looked at him funny, he said.

I just wanted to escape.

I see a victim. A middle-aged man stops to talk to a friend, right in front of me. Told you I was invisible. Perhaps If I move fast enough I can be just another shadow.

I ease out onto the street. There's so much life here. People and lights and stores. It's not a world I'm a part of anymore.

My heart races. Makes me feel dizzy. God, I need something to eat.

My hand slips into his coat pocket. Grasps a wallet.

'_Hey!_'

He turns round and grabs my arm. I wrench back, still holding the wallet, but he won't let go. His friend darts forward to try and help and I manage to pull to one side, out of his reach for a second. Panic rises. I lash out, my fingers curled in a loose fist, punching the guy in the nose. He cries out and shakes me. He's stronger than I thought, or maybe I'm weaker.

I punch him again. He slumps to the ground but he won't let go. I kick him and kick him, desperate, until his hand slides away and I'm free.

I run.

I weave through alleys I don't recognise, tripping over garbage. I stop because I can't run anymore, not because I feel safe.

I lean against a wall and try to catch my breath. It refuses to be caught. I think about my foot driving into the man's ribs and how my knuckles hurt from hitting him. My heartbeat won't slow down.

I throw up. My throat burns and I'm emptier than ever.

I think I'm fainting. All the lights are fading.

But then I see – two guys blocking the light, their faces cut harsh by shadows. I wonder what they're doing here; they don't look homeless. Muggers?

'Hand over the money, kid.'

Yeah, muggers.

One pins me up against the wall. The other uncurls my fingers from around the smooth leather of the wallet. It's not that difficult.

They're going to get mean. I can tell before they even share a look and laugh, and the first fist connects with my jaw. I don't even care that much.

They hit me in the ribs and I crumple, all my breath gone. I wasn't going to fight them, I've never been good at fighting, but now I've got no choice. I just curl up on the cold, greasy, stinking alley floor and hope they get bored soon.

There's this weird, muffled grunt and suddenly they're not beating me anymore. I lift up my head and see this little guy in a trench coat and some sort of old-fashioned hat, knocking the guys around like they're toys. They keep coming at him, one even draws a knife, but he just kicks it away. It's not long before they run.

He chases a few steps after them, then stops. I'm half praying for him to go. This is just too weird. He's dressed like some private eye out of a black and white movie, but those moves were some sort of martial art, I'm sure of it.

He bounces on his heels for a second and then whirls back round to face me. I manage to get up. I draw back against the wall. My bones feel like they've been rattled loose in my joints. I see the wallet and scoop it up despite the pain.

'So, kid, you okay?'

I nod.

'You sure?' He's got a friendly voice. Kind of young, lively. 'You got a –' He gestures towards my face. I touch it tentatively and find it slick with blood from a cut on my temple.

'I'm okay,' I mumble. 'Not deep.'

'In that case – you want to give up the wallet?'

I knew it. I knew no one was going to help me. 'No,' I say. 'It ain't yours.' But he can just take it if he wants. I don't doubt that.

'I know it's not mine. I'm giving it back to that guy you attacked.'

I feel sick with shame when he says that. 'I didn't mean to!'

'So, what, you did it by accident?'

Curses build up in my throat. I bite them back. I don't want to make him mad.

'That was a joke, kid. Don't be scared of me.' He's peering at me through the dark. 'New round here, huh?'

I nod.

'Finding it tough?'

Another nod.

'You know, there's a shelter about two blocks east.'

'I'm not going there.'

'Why?'

'They'll try and make me go home.'

He does that bouncing on his heels thing again. 'And you don't want that.' It's a flat statement, not a question. 'They won't make you do anything.'

I want out of this alley, this whole situation. 'Fine I'll go. I'll go right now.'

He blocks my exit. 'Kid, there's better ways of getting by. Believe me. You don't need to steal.'

'Get out of my way!' I try to shove past him. He just pushes me away, nothing rough, but strong. I stagger back and he steadies me.

'Whoa, careful there!' I see a flash of white teeth. He's smiling.

I give up right then. I can't win. 'Here, take it.' I throw the wallet down. 'Take it, I don't care.'

He picks it up. 'I don't think you get it.' He walks slowly down the alley, tugging me along. 'Look, I'm giving it back. You can watch.'

I thought I'd run far, but in less than a minute we're at the alley mouth. The man I attacked is standing a little way down the street, talking to a small group of people. One of them, a woman, is dabbing at his face with a tissue while he makes angry gestures with his hands.

'Wait here.' The guy next to me hurries off towards the group. I can't hear what he says, but he hands the wallet over, turns, and leaves.

He ducks back into the alley.

'What'd he say?' I ask.

'Not much. Mostly – "What? How? Huh?"' He shakes his head and in a tone of mock sadness, says, 'I don't get no respect.'

I laugh a little. It makes my chest hurt, but seems to please him.

He digs around in his coat pockets. 'Here.'

He's holding out a crumpled bill. I don't move. 'Get something to eat and then . . .' He shrugs.

I don't know why I'm reluctant to take his money. Maybe because he's obviously a decent guy, and I'm not.

'I'm not hungry.'

I see the white flash of a smile again. 'Dude, I can hear your stomach from here.'

I take the money. He smiled, nods, turns to go.

'Remember what I said kid, okay? About the stealing?'

'Okay.' He moves into the stream of people and is gone. I look at the money in my hand. Ten dollars.

I'm going to get something to eat, though not here. And then . . . well, there's a shelter two blocks east.


	3. 3

**Author Note: Just want to say thank you for all the great, blush-making comments. They make me write faster, I swear.**

He's gripping my arm just above the elbow, his fingers digging into my muscles hard enough to hurt, but not quite enough to bruise.

The cab pulls away behind us. We walk up the street in silence. The ground shines with new rain, slowed now to a gentle falling mist, caught in the yellow streetlights. There are no trees here, but I've seen them in the park, starting to wake up; tiny, pale green buds –

Jake's fingers grind into my arm. Always seems he can tell if I'm daydreaming.

We reach the steps of the little apartment block. He's pulling me along too fast; my heels slip on the rough, wet stones and I land on my knees.

He let's go and stands on the step above me. 'Get up.'

My knees hurt. I've skinned them, like I always used to do when I was a kid. It's a familiar pain, almost comforting.

His slap knocks the memory away.

I start to get up. 'Not here,' I say.

This time it's a fist, catching me high up on the cheekbone. Half in a crouch, I lose my balance and fall back, landing on the street. He begins the tirade that should have started inside; I'm a whore, a cheap, dirty whore, letting other men look at me when I'm his, I'm his, and do I really think I can get another man? Do I really think I deserve another man? Do I really think I'm _better_ than him?

I don't know what to do. If we were inside I would shut up and stay down.

I sit up, legs tucked under me. Bare legs. Short skirt like he wanted. But scraped knees, now. Like a kid.

I should be listening to him, for the moments where I have to make the right responses. But all I can think about is my sister, Jen, in her little country house upstate. I bet it's nice and quiet there. I picture her sitting at a kitchen table with early morning sunshine covering everything and all the trees and flowers outside beginning to bloom.

A sob rips through me. It'll make him angrier. Like with my Dad. He hated it when we cried.

Oh, Jen. I miss her so badly. So badly I can't stop crying, even when Jake comes down the steps and orders me to stop. Even when he slaps me again and orders me to stop, stop it _right_ _now._

I want Jen to stride up and make everything better. But I know what she'd see.

A handsome man with cruelness stamped all through him if you looked close enough. And a cheap, dirty whore sprawled on the ground at his feet, with all the marks covered by make up.

_Make your bed and lie in it_, she'd probably say. _I've told you to leave New York._

But I'm the screw up.

He kicks me in the stomach, one of his favourite places, and then again when I curl up on my side.

I should feel ashamed. There's probably someone out here watching. But everyone in the apartment block knows anyway. No one really cares. I hear the same pattern of placating, pleading, beating from behind other doors. So my beating is a little more public – it doesn't matter. This is who I am now.

Someone _is_ watching. I can see a glint of eyes from an alley. It's a guy all covered in one of them long coats that reminds me of the flashers who lurk around in the park. He's probably enjoying this.

The guy steps out from the shadows. Got a hat on too, reminds me of Dirk Bogart. Jake doesn't notice him, until the guy grabs his shoulder, spins him round, and punches him in the face.

Jake screams and brings his hands up. Blood pours between them. Broken nose.

He curses and lunges at the man, who side steps him so easily it's almost funny. He lands a punch again, this time a sharp jab to Jake's jaw.

'What the – ?' Jake pants out. 'Who the hell are you?'

The guy gets him in the stomach. I don't watch the rest. I should love seeing this, but I just feel tired.

I'm sitting on the bottom step when Jake runs. He staggers past me, not even stopping to call me a bitch or a whore.

The guy stands off to one side, near the alley, but doesn't leave. Just stands there watching me. I wonder what he's going to say. What's a nice girl like me doing with a guy like him, maybe. Then he'll expect something in return.

I wipe my eyes, leaving streaks of mascara along my hands. It reminds me of being ten and playing with Jen's make up. I made a mess of it, but when she saw she didn't get mad. She laughed and called me her little panda.

I hear the guy muttering something – it sounds like 'Shouldn't have done that.' I'm not sure if he's referring to Jake, or his own actions. I realise that Jake will come back, at some point, and I'll probably end up in hospital, if I'm lucky. But I don't want to make this guy feel guilty.

'Thanks,' I say. When I stand up a terrible pain rips through my side and I double over, gasping for breath. With my eyes squeezed shut I don't see him move, but I'm aware of him standing over me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me to be careful. I shrug the hand away. I don't like strangers touching me. When I open my eyes he's still there.

His silence makes me nervous.

'So.' I wrap my arms around my legs and offer a shaky, swollen smile. 'Aren't you going to say I'm better off without him? Aren't you going to ask to come up?' Tears are leaking out of the corners of my eyes again.

'No.' He sticks his hands in his pockets. 'But he shouldn't have done that.'

'Maybe I deserved it.'

I get the sense that he wants to shout something at me, and just manages to bite it back. He waves his hands in an impatient gesture and for a moment I think he's going to leave.

'Want me to help you upstairs?'

'No.'

'Look,' he says. 'I don't want nothing.'

'So go.' I rest my head on my knees and close my eyes. His voice is too loud. Why can't I be around people with soft voices?

'Will he come back?'

Jake, he means. 'Yeah.'

More muttering. Then, 'Got someplace you can go?'

I think of saying something like 'Who says I want to go?' But I'm cold and hurt all over. I can't be bothered to lie anymore.

'Got a sister. But I can't ask her.'

'Why not?'

'She'd say it was my own fault.' I open my eyes. I can barely see him; he's backed away into the shadows again. 'She's always right. I don't want to go to her just so she can lecture me.'

'Sounds familiar,' he says with a slight laugh. 'I got this brother – ' He stops. 'Sometimes . . .' He paces. 'Sometimes people say things and we think they're trying to . . . to lecture us 'cause they like it, you know? But it's because they don't want us hurt.' He kicks at something I can't see in the dark. 'Don't make it any easier to listen to, though.'

I think about Jen. In my mind, over the years, she's become cruel and petty, the type of person who would throw my words back in my face and turn me away. How could I think that, when all she ever did was try and protect me?

He's starting to walk away.

'Hey!' I call after him. 'Thanks!'

He raises a hand in a brief wave and turns into an alley.

It takes me awhile to climb the stairs to my apartment, but at least it gives me time to decide what to do. I've got some money, enough for a night at a motel. And I've got a sister who cares about me, even if I refused to see it. I know it's late, but I'll call her. She'll help me. I'll stay at her house, where I bet it's nice and quiet and the trees are just waking up.

As I open my front door I know that even before I ask her for help, I'm going to say, _I missed you, Jen. I love you._


	4. 4

**Author Note: And the last one-shot is up . . .**

**I've had a lot of fun writing these, and getting reviews has been great. I've another series of one-shots planned, though they're very different to 'In Passing', and a long story titled 'Professional Maniacs', the first chapter of which should be posted in the next few days, and is much lighter in tone. Hope you stick around for those!**

**Extra note: I've avoided any mention of bandanas, for two reasons – mentioning colours would be much too obvious; and I wanted to keep it ambiguous as to which TMNT 'universe' the stories were taking place in.**

I want someone to tell me I'm doing the right thing.

We leave the fluorescent glare of the convenience store and step out onto the dark street. The doors close behind us, cutting off Steve's stream of insults. Out here in the cold air my temper fades and I don't know what to do.

Sophie yawns and rubs her eyes. 'Mommy, where're we going?'

I lay a hand on top of her head. Her hair gleams like chestnuts. 'We're going home.' When I reach down to pick her up she fusses and struggles.

'I want to walk!'

I should call a cab, but I don't have any money. It's one in the morning; my shift should've ended at six. There are plenty of people around then.

_Cabs are a waste of money,_ says an inner voice that sounds like my mom. I always try and save what little money I have. She'd be proud.

Yeah, right.

I take Sophie's hand and start walking. Two streets and we're home. I repeat it like a mantra.

Two streets and we're home.

Oh, this is so stupid. I should swallow my pride and beg for my job back. I should simper a little and apologise for storming out, pretending like he never grabbed me. It's not like this is the first time someone's looked at Sophie, looked at me, guessed our ages. Done the math. Made the assumptions.

Our feet crunch on broken glass. It always seems that every other window in this neighbourhood is broken, every other building crumbling at the edges. Most of the streetlights are dead. The room I rent is cramped and dank and I can always hear rats scrabbling in the walls.

We pass a payphone. I want to duck inside; I can imagine my call – _'Hey, Mom, Dad, can you come and pick me up? I'm tired of being an adult.'_

Sophie drags on my arm. 'Mommy, I'm tired. Go slower.'

'We're almost home, sweetie. How about I carry you?'

'I want to walk.'

'If I carry you, we can get home faster.'

'No! I want – '

'Sophie, for God's sake let me carry you!'

Her face crumples and I hear footsteps.

'Hey, lady.'

Two kids with knives; boys in clothes designed to make them look tough. They don't look any older than me; they might even be younger.

'Give us your wallet.'

I'm not scared. I've been mugged before. I'm walking home in the dark in a bad neighbourhood – I knew something like this would happen. I hand over my purse, pulling Sophie closer to me. She doesn't seem to understand what's going on.

One of the boys takes my purse and searches through it.

'That it?' He throws it off to one side; I hear it thump against a dumpster in the alley. There's a tone of indignant disbelief in his voice, as if I'm being poor on purpose.

'That's it,' I say. 'That's all I've got on me.' I can feel the fear worming it's way in now, like a cold hand around my heart.

There's a long, taut moment – the boy who took my wallet just stares at me as I stand there and his friend looks back and forth between us, his movements nervous and jerky.

'Hey, man, we should get out of here.' He glances up and down the street. 'We – '

The other boy's hand snakes out and grabs me, clamping down on my wrist. I feel Sophie jump in surprise, then press against my legs; I feel my wrist bones grind together; I feel a flash of fear so bright it's like I've been stabbed.

'Hey,' the other one says. 'Hey, what're you doing?'

'What does it look like?' He brings the knife up until the gleaming point doesn't quite touch my neck.

Sophie clings to my coat. 'Mommy, what's going on?'

'Nothing, sweetheart.'

'I want to go home,' she wails. 'I'm tired!'

The boy nods his head towards his friend. 'Shut the damn kid up.' After a second of indecision, the other boy reaches out and pulls Sophie away from me.

She screams. The sound is high, wild, raw with panic and fear.

'_Leave her alone!'_

I surprise him, I think. My voice is so much bigger, more commanding than I expect it to be. My free hand comes up and swipes the knife to one side – it's a stupid move, but it works and the knife skitters away across the sidewalk. After that I hardly know what I'm doing. I punch, bite, kick, scratch, scream, and then one of them throws me to the ground and I know that this is probably it, it's over now.

There's a weird shadow leaping down the building.

The shadow lands in the street. So quiet. Have I gone deaf?

The others notice it too. For a moment no one moves, no one speaks. All I can see of the shadow is a short, blocky outline and glinting eyes. It raises a hand, reaches behind its shoulder, and then hesitates.

Its attack is fast and silent. It takes seconds to bring the two boys down – a swift kick, a punch, a few moves that pass too quick for me to take note of.

The shadow is green.

It stops, the boys sprawled unconscious at its feet, its back to me. Strange back. Like a shell.

It turns around; I take in a few more details – very broad face and mouth, bald. 'Are you okay?' A male voice.

'Um . . . I . . . you're . . .' I scramble up. A terrible realisation steals my breath. 'Sophie!'

'Sophie?'

I stagger a few steps down the street. 'Sophie! It's okay now! You can come out!'

'Who's Sophie?'

I jump – he's standing right behind me. I try to bite back panic. 'My daughter. She must've got scared and run off. She must be hiding. Or . . . someone's grabbed her and . . .' I turn away from him and call out again. 'Sophie!' I spin back to him and grab his arm – and, oh God, it feels real. Muscles under my hand. Tough skin. 'You've got to help me!'

'I will.' I let go of his arm. 'But you need to calm down.'

And I do, just a little. It must be his tone of voice; steady, soothing, the voice of someone who knows what they're doing. I wish I sounded like that.

'You check the street that side of the road, I'll do this side. Don't worry, I'll keep watch on you. We'll find her.' I notice that he's actually looking up at me. I'm taller. Weird; it feels like it's the other way round. 'Okay?'

I nod and cross road, peering under cars to see if she's hiding there. I refuse to think of the alternative. We _will _find her. She's safe.

Now the adrenaline's wearing off I ache all over. There's the bitter taste of someone else's blood in my mouth and a sharp pain in my wrist. I focus on the physical, making little mental notes of each injury. Behind it my thoughts run, confused, tangled and fragmented, trying to fit the attack, the rescue, the green man and Sophie together.

I call her name over and over again. If something's happened to her it'll be my fault, because I made the wrong decision.

But nothing's happened. She's just hiding.

I find myself whispering that as I reach the opposite side of the street and go down another alley. It's too dark. How am I supposed to find her like this?

Please, don't let my last words to her be angry.

Please, I didn't mean it. I was just tired and scared and worried.

For the second time this evening I hear footsteps behind me. But when I turn I see it's the green man – and he has Sophie in his arms.

He smiles slightly at me over the top of her head.

'Sophie!' I rush forward. He hands her too me. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her hands are clamped over her ears. I hold her as close to me as possible and feel her heart beating against mine, fast as a bird's.

'Mommy?'

'It's me, sweetie.'

She starts crying.

'I . . . I'm sorry Sophie, I . . .' Oh, damn, I'm going to cry too. I look over to the man. He's still standing there, watching us with an expression I can't understand. 'Thank you,' I say.

He seems to ignore that. 'Do you live far from here?'

'No. Why?'

He glances back over his shoulder at the street. 'I'll escort you home.'

Escort? 'Oh, um . . .' I should say no. I shouldn't let strange . . . men? . . . know where I live. 'Okay.'

There's no one about, but he keeps very much to the shadows. Sophie falls silent; I wonder if in fact she's sleeping. It'd probably be best if she did. I don't know how to explain any of this to her.

Questions build up in the silence. I refuse to say them. I guess it's my way of showing gratitude. I end up telling him about Steve instead, explaining why I was walking back at night in the first place. I don't want him to think I'm stupid, or irresponsible. He doesn't speak and I can't see him well enough to know if he's even listening.

'So, um, now I'm jobless.'

'It was . . .' He pauses. 'It was the right thing to do.'

'It was?'

Another long pause. 'You've taught your daughter about dignity and honour. They're important lessons.'

I really don't know what to say. We reach the building where I rent a room. I still don't know what to say.

'So . . . thank you.' Sophie stirs in my arms, yawning and blinking. 'For everything.'

He nods his head and fades away into the shadows.

'Bye,' Sophie murmurs.

I stare into the darkness. But there's nothing to see. He's gone.

'Bye.'


End file.
